


Born of Blades and Burrs

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Blades (Supernatural), Angst, Beautiful Words and Flowery Language, Birds, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Burrs - Freeform, Castiel (Supernatural) Needs a Hug, Castiel (Supernatural) Whump, Castiel Really Just Needs Some Love, Choking, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Feelings, Gen, God Is A Bad Parent, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Torture, Kind of a character study, Pain, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Prayer, Suicidal Thoughts, Wings, basically canon-compliant, like super close to canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: There are many things that can cause pain. As an angel, it had nearly always been at the tip of a blade. Now, though? Those birds flying overhead made his heart twist with utter agony. A reminder of all that he lost.(A post season eight one-shot that focuses on Castiel’s perspective when he first falls)





	Born of Blades and Burrs

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Here’s a short, hurt!Cas story for y’all. Hope everyone likes it. 
> 
> No warnings, except small possible trigger for suicidal thoughts. Better description in end notes if you want it.

He had prayed. 

It had been so long, so many years since he had last talked to his Father. Asked for guidance when given an order. Pleaded with him as he felt his brothers’ blade sink deep into his skin, as he was stretched out on a rack and filled with poisonous words. God had never responded, never showed a sign to him that what he was doing was right and just, or in His wishes. So he had stopped asking for guidance. Stopped asking for anything. When he was taken again to Heaven, so many years ago, for planning to tell Dean about the angels’ real goals, he took what they doled out in silence. Didn’t send his true voice out across the chords of the Universe. Didn’t shout it through every channel as his wings were broken and stripped and bent again and again. 

Maybe that was why it was the time he had finally turned his back on humanity; on the Winchesters.

But as he felt that blade against his throat, its sharp edge press against his vessel's skin, he sent out a plea. Lips unmoving, yet his entire grace screaming and shouting. To anyone, God, whatever angels still cared anymore what happened to him. 

Please, don't let Metatron do this.

The cold, celestial steel split into tissue, blood being held just below the surface by the grace that flowed throughout his body. That blue instead welled up, spilling out beyond the red. Lifeblood seeping gently.

His desperate cries softened as the grace, his essence, as Metatron had called it, flowed from wound and into the awaiting vial. To complete the spell, as his captor had just explained. 

He had been taken in, again, by the promise of doing something good, of being a hero. And look where that had gotten him. Look where it had always gotten him. Metatron had used his naivete to get his own wishes. Same as Crowley, Uriel. 

It felt like someone was tearing a hole into his very being. His true voice screamed, his grace writhing and clawing to stay inside him. It was torturous, moments stretching out into hours and millennium, filled with only the truest pain.

He sent out another quick plea as the feel of the holy metal cuffs around his wrists slowly faded from his perception. It was as though he was held by just ordinary manacles, but as much as he pulled, they would not yield. They were cold and unforgiving against his skin, which had been scraped raw from his struggles. It burned. It stung. It hurt in a way more visceral than anything else he’d experienced. 

Blood flowed out of the gaping wound and down into his throat. Choking him. The sensation was painful and warm and viscous, as his mouth gaped uselessly to try and draw in air. It bubbled along his trachea, unable to reach deep into his lungs. That was air he now needed. 

Panic welled up inside him, a tidal wave of emotion that was new and frightening. It made his hands scrabble along the cool metal of the cuffs, legs kicking out hopelessly against their own restraints. He twisted and turned as much as he could, but it did nothing to lessen the sudden pressure on his chest. 

The world started to dim around him, the bright lights fading. Color was leeching out at the edges, and the already bland room was turning a dismal shade of grey. White and black spots floated across his vision, turning and dancing. It was beautiful, in some fascinating way. They weren’t there, he knew they weren’t. Yet he _saw_ them. 

A thick and heavy hand swiped harshly over the cut, rubbing and pushing against his Adam's apple. He could feel warmth spread throughout his body as grace, another angel's grace, healed his own wounds. It felt forced and wrong even as that pain slowly subsided. The spots vanished. He almost wished they’d come back. It blocked out the sight of a Heaven betrayed.

As his heaving breaths calmed down, he became more aware of the skin he was trapped in. The body which was now his. He was, practically, human. And his wings-

He sent his awareness desperately back, but balked when he couldn’t find them. They were just... gone. The soft currents of the ether were no longer ruffling his feathers. All that he was, forced into this tiny body. 

A low whimper passed his lips.

His eyes flicked across the room. Heaven no longer held that ethereal glow, the grace of every angel inside powering it. He couldn’t feel the hum that the Universe had always sent through him, nor the thin threads that tied every being intrinsically together. He couldn't feel the heavy-but-comforting weight of his wings pulling his shoulders slightly back. Instead, he could hear his heartbeat pound in his chest, his lungs expanding to allow desperately needed air inside. How warm his clothes were around him. The burning cold of the cuffs against his wrists. The sudden onslaught of senses made him dizzy. 

He could hear Metatron talking to him, about a spell, about betrayal, perfidy, but he couldn't focus. All the different sensations flooded him, and he could barely make out what he was seeing versus hearing or smelling or tasting. Everything swirled around his mind and clouded his brain, too overwhelmed to process anything. Without something sharp to break through, it all became one muffled painting of feeling. 

That hand reached up once more, and as it settled on his forehead, he could recognize the slight coat of sweat in its palm. Callouses that dotted fingertips. It was a tether he needed as the world exploded around him in an array of beautiful golden colors and light. He could slowly feel that hand go from a moist cold to a burning hot. 

As the power of the grace became too much for his now-mortal body to simply contain, he screamed, both in pain and anger. He screamed to God and the angels who had abandoned him to this fate. 

As the blinding heat enveloped him, in that moment, wished for it to all end. How any angel could survive this, the humiliation, the pain, was beyond him. He knew that, despite everything, his sacrifices and choices, working with Crowley to defeat Raphael. The betrayal and the pain and the torture and the death. Despite all that, he had failed in his mission. He could not save Heaven, not when they had no morals nor want for help. When many were simply followers, desperate for someone to lead them, and all the rest were as corrupt as sin. It was impossible to hallow his god-forsaken brethren. 

So as that heat surrounded his body, he allowed himself to be rushed away towards blackness, and what he thought meant death. 

In fact, he hoped for it. 

Maybe, maybe, his death would be of some use. Maybe Metatron really would use his grace to save some semblance of Heaven. Maybe he could actually, finally, do some good in the world.

o.0.o

No one knew where angel's went when they died. Certainly not Heaven, nor Hell. Maybe they went to live with God, wherever he is. But the one thing that Castiel knew was they did not go to Earth.

So when he felt the pine needles sticking to the side of his face, the slightly moist moss laying around his head, he knew his last prayers had been ignored. He was not dead; simply a broken, pathetic human. 

His lungs were still filling with air that everything angelic in him was rebelling against. His chest rose and fell frantically, as though he was still being choked under a deluge of blood. It made him cough and sputter, spit soaking his cheek. He wanted to wipe it off, the wetness uncomfortable against the itchy moss. But he was so tired, and even as he lay there he could feel that it was not grace pumping through his veins, but pure blood. That fact alone kept him still.

He let out a soft groan as he opened his eyes. Bright sunlight filtered through the trees, falling around him in small beams. The sky seemed so blue above him, small wispy clouds floating languidly across. It filled him with an awe he’d never felt before. Gold and green and blue surrounded him. He was lying on the floor of a forest, heaven above and hell below, on Earth. His Father’s creations.

But as beautiful as the light was, it made his head pound. As though a hammer was being forced again and again against his skull, until it would finally crack open and leak his cranium fluid across the ground like a broken egg. He fought to not close his eyes against the light.

A soft chirp reached his ears. Jovial and bright, such a contrast to his inner turmoil. A bird flew above him, all red in contrast to the sky. He couldn’t hear the gentle flaps of its wings, only watch as it quickly faded from his sight and perception. He’d never see it again. 

It was so free, like he had been. Wings able to carry them anywhere, cutting quickly through the ether. That freedom, with currents buffeting his face and sifting through his feathers, was one he would never feel again. 

His heart wrenched.

Hands curled deep into the grass and moss. It was spongy where it pressed against his fingers, moist with dew. It was nice. Quickly, though, he could feel a sharp pain digging into his palm. It made him gasp. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his hand up. Felt his energy drain just keeping it hovering above his face. He saw a burr had latched barely into his skin. Green prickles shoving itself barely under the upper epidermis. Could only stare at it. 

Something so small was sending fireworks through his nerves. It was simultaneously simply a nuisance yet earth-shattering in a way Cas just didn’t understand. 

The sun moved across the sky as he laid there. Soon, he let his hand fall back to the ground, not bothering to pick out the burr. A wave of tired that was existential flooded over him, and he fought to keep his eyes open. They were half-lidded as he tracked birds leaping across the sky, wings blackened against the bright sunlight. 

He wanted to be a bird. Fly away from his body and his life and mistakes. Maybe his Father would grant him one last favor. Maybe, now that he’s human, he’ll go to Heaven. And, just maybe, he’ll get to soar high above mountain peaks and valleys, warmth always beating against shining feathers. 

Soon, the weariness was too much, and he was lulled into a light sleep by chirps and calls and wind whistling through wings and trees. And he dreamt that nothing, not burrs nor blades, could hurt him.

No, nothing could hurt him, as he flew miles above the clouds.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Cas says that he hopes he would die when his grace is cut out. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed, please give a kudo or drop a comment!


End file.
